


like hurricanes

by psychosei



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Betrayal, Espionage, F/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 14:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16745443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychosei/pseuds/psychosei
Summary: When Corporal Lavellan is ordered to infiltrate the Agents of Fen'Harel, a terrorist organization, she expects violent reformers and anarchists. She doesn't expect the thoughtful, well-spoken Solas, whose trust she needs to earn in order to reach the organization's highest echelons.





	like hurricanes

The meeting room is a disappointment, really. Lavellan was expecting a 3D holographic map and loads of computers, people muttering into headsets, everything shiny and modern.

The reality is rather plain. Off-white walls, fluorescent lights, linoleum flooring. There’s a sad little kitchenette off to one side, with a coffee maker on its last legs, dark gunk sputtering out of it into the pot. The conference table looks like the sort you ate lunch at when you were still in primary, and there’s an inoffensive portrait of the late King of Starkhaven on the wall opposite.

The only extraordinary thing in the room is sitting at the table, across from Lavellan.

Brigadier General Amell was only nineteen when she enlisted; when her entire squad, including any and all commanding officers, were slaughtered right before her eyes; when she managed to bring down a terrorist organization and save Fereldan from a coup by the skin of its teeth. The breast of her uniform is heavy with accolades: a Medal of Honour, a Flame of Our Blessed Andraste, the Grey Warden Award. Lavellan has followed her career devotedly. Amell, after all, was the one who inspired to join the army, even from across the Waking Sea.

Now, Amell takes a sip of her drink (latte, soy, extra espresso shot, her name misspelled -- _Amal_ ) and flips open a manila folder. Lavellan can only guess at what she’s doing in the Free Marches, each possibility more improbable than the last.

Finally, Amell breaks the silence. “Corporal Lavellan. Why,” she asks, “did you enlist?”

 _Because I love my country_ is the right answer, but it's a lie, and she thinks Amell would see right through her. So she says, “You don’t need an education for it, and they have to pay me what they pay everyone else.”

“Hm. You’re Dalish?”

Lavellan smiles without humour. Vallaslin are a fashion statement these days. Even some humans have them, as if elves weren’t ostracized and slaughtered for them for centuries. But she remembers holding Keeper Deshanna’s hand as the ink was cut into her face, as she pledged herself to Dirthamen, who overcame Fear and Deceit – that's what she holds close to her heart.

“Straight off the reserve.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Hm.”

Amell, Lavellan notices, never blinks. Her eyes are very pale, colourless and cold. Her gaze is like a blade drawn across skin.

“Tell me, Corporal, what are you loyal to?”

“The people."

"Of the Free Marches?"

"No. I mean, not _no,_ but rather--" Lavellan could hit herself. She screws her hands into fists beneath the table. "In the end, a country is just an idea. But the people are real. They deserve to be safe.”

Amell closes the folder. She has long, fine-boned hands. The skin on one is shiny and mottled, like melted plastic. She twists her body to look at the portrait behind her, and nods. Only then does Lavellan see the faint red glow from one of the eyes – a hidden camera.

The door to the meeting room opens, and four people stride in.

“Lavellan,” says Amell, “allow me to introduce you to my colleagues. I believe you’re acquainted with Sergeant Pentaghast already.”

Cassandra Pentaghast of Nevarra’s military police. Lavellan doesn’t know her well, but she worked closely with Lavellan’s superiors during her time helping fight rebels in Nevarra.

“Good to see you again,” Cassandra says, nodding once.

Amell continues, “This is Major Cullen Rutherford, Special Agent Leliana des Ailes from the OIA, and our liaison officer and legal advisor Josephine Montilyet.”

Lavellan shakes everyone’s hand, and they all take a seat. Lavellan feels wildly out of place, ridiculous in her barely-decorated dress uniform. She wants to ask what she’s doing here, but the words stick in her throat.

“Before we begin, please sign this,” says Josephine. She has thick Antivan accent, and is dressed fashionably in a navy pencil skirt and flowy golden blouse. Her gaze, when Lavellan meets it, is sharp. She slides a thin sheaf of papers across the table.

“What is it?”

“A nondisclosure agreement,” Josephine says. “It’s very simple: Everything you see and hear in this room must never leave it.” She smiles beatifically. “Unless you wish to be sued, stripped of rank and holdings, and face up to eight years in prison for endangering the interest of the United Nations of Thedas, that is.”

Lavellan swallows. “I see,” she says. She scans the document once, twice, looking for fine print, but it really does seem straightforward as Josephine says. She signs on the dotted line.

“Excellent,” says Josephine, and the papers disappear into her briefcase.

“Now we can get started,” says Cassandra, leaning forward onto her elbows. “Some days ago, Brigadier General Amell received a missive from the Arishok in Par Vollen.”

Lavellan blinks. “A threat?”

“No, a request.”

“But we’ve been at war with the Qunari for years,” says Lavellan. A slow war, a quiet war, a war that has yet to reach the bulk of Thedas – but a war nonetheless. “They’re terrorists.”

“That is a gross oversimplification,” says Amell, a furrow between her brows. “The Qun  is a religion, a philosophy, a social architecture. What we call terrorism in the south, is to them an attempt to educate the ignorant masses. They believe it their duty to enlighten us. Unfortunately, enlightenment is, in this case, equivalent to subjugation. But I digress. The Arishok has asked for our aid in combating a new threat, one more immediately pressing than we and the Qunari are to each other. They call themselves the Agents of Fen’Harel.”

Lavellan’s jaw tightens. She remembers being four or five, sitting at Keeper Deshanna’s feet while she told stories that kept Lavellan up at night. “The Dread Wolf.”

“Precisely,” says Leliana. “Originally we believed them to be a radical elvhen rights group, but in fact we’re not sure what their goal is. They’ve assaulted military bases in Seheron and Par Vollen, raided Rivaini cargo ships, and made an attempt to intercept an Antivan delegate in Orlais. And that’s just what we know of.”

“They’re unpredictable,” adds Cullen. “We believe they have dozens of bases across southern Thedas, and who knows how many more outside of the UNT.”

Lavellan shakes her head. “I understand all that. What I don’t understand is why I’m here.”

“I recommended you for this assignment. You did good work in Nevarra, although I understand you were only a private at the time,” Cassandra says. Lavellan blinks at the sincerity in her voice. “You are a natural leader. People trust you. When Brigadier General Amell contacted me, I simply shared my observations.”

“The fact of the matter is that we need an inside man, and there aren’t many elves in our ranks,” Cullen tells her. “Even in recent years, Fereldan and Orlais have not been especially…progressive when it comes to their non-human recruits. That you are here at all, and have performed five years of exemplary service, is already exceptional. Someone with your talent and perseverance is exactly who we need.”

Amell drums her fingers on the table top. “Your mission is very simple, in theory. You will infiltrate the Agents of Fen’Harel. You will send us any and all information you acquire. And then we will destroy them. You don't have to say yes. But you told me you are loyal to the people. Or did you mean only your own? I can assure you, the Agents of Fen’Harel have no special love for the Dalish. Leliana.”

Leliana puts her purse on the table. It’s a Maevaris Tilani, and must be worth at least a year of Lavellan’s pay. She pulls a stack of photos from inside, bound with an elastic band, and passes them across the table to Lavellan.

They’re crime scene photos. A dozen different bodies, strewn across the dirt like trash. Blood everywhere. Lavellan saw plenty of carnage fighting revolutionaries in Nevarra, but these hit her in a different way. She can tell by the ears that they’re elves, and by the charred remains of the aravels that they’re Dalish. Bile rises in her throat. She shoves the pictures back across the table.

“From what we can tell,” Leliana says, “the Agents approached this clan hoping to earn their allegiance. When the clan refused, this was the result.”

“How do you know it was them? It looks like -- it looks like every other hate crime.”

Leliana passes her another photo, one Lavellan didn’t get far enough to see it. She hesitates only a second before taking it.

Spray-painted across a squat storage building are the words FEN’HAREL MA HALAM. The Dread Wolf ends you. A threat to anyone who might see it, as well as a telling of what happened there.

“I understand,” Lavellan says at length. “I’ll do what I can. Whatever it takes.”

For the first time, Amell smiles. It’s terrifying.

 

 

Lavellan can’t help but feel like a lost puppy as she follows Leliana deeper into the base. Her skin itches with discomfort and she can't help but feel that she's being watched. Her back hurts, too; she wishes she could go home and take her bra off. 

“I know it’s hard to tell,” Leliana says suddenly, “but Amell was impressed by you.”

Lavellan blinks. “She was?”

“Yes. But I’ve known her a long time. I’d be surprised if you noticed.” Leliana casts her an indulgent smile. “I’m afraid you won’t be seeing her again for some time, though. She’s headed back to Fereldan. Strictly speaking, this mission has not been approved by Prime Minister Mac Tir, or indeed anyone, so she’ll be returning to her usual duties to avoid suspicion.”

“This is a black op, then,” says Lavellan.

“Precisely.” Here, Leliana pauses. “And you start tonight. I suggest you take a few minutes to let your loved ones know you’ll be on a mission overseas. Or whatever you think will keep them away for a while.”

Lavellan swallows. “Will I need a new identity?”

“We considered it. Ultimately, I think it will be better if you are yourself.”

“But if shit hits the fan—uh, sorry—”

“Not to worry. Continue.”

“If things go sideways, my family could be in danger.”

Leliana puts a comforting hand on Lavellan’s shoulder, but her gaze is cool, calculating. “I understand your concerns. Please know, first and foremost, that the Brigadier General has placed a special agent to keep an eye on your clan. We’ll protect them. But we need you to be you. The Agents of Fen’Harel need a reason to trust you. So while you’ll be feeding us information about them, you’ll also be feeding them information about us. Nothing that will put our troops in any danger, but just enough to make them think you’re a double agent. For them, that is.”

Lavellan barks a laugh, but the back of her neck feels hot with anger – and embarrassment. When she’d enlisted, she’d imagined a life like something out of an action movie: explosions and cool one-liners and the sure knowledge that she was doing the right thing. She should have guessed the human brass wouldn’t care about keeping a Dalish clan safe. She should have guessed she was just a tool to them. If Brigadier General Amell had been impressed by her, it was because she’d thought Lavellan would be effective.

She supposes the only thing she can do now is be just that. Get the job done.

 “We’ve put together a support team for you,” Leliana continues, oblivious to Lavellan’s turmoil. “You’ll meet them tomorrow, once we arrive in Orlais. Cassandra, Cullen and Josephine will be accompanying us as well.”

“What’s in Orlais?”

“One of the few confirmed Fen’Harel bases. I'll tell you more once we've arrived. Now, the Brigadier General arranged a room for you here on the base. ” Leliana smiles. “Here we are. Sleep well, Lavellan. Someone will bring you something to eat, and I’ll collect you in the morning. And remember what I said. Talk to your family.”

"Right," says Lavellan, her voice distant in her own ears. "Thanks."

The room is sparse, inoffensive, just like every room on every military base. There’s a framed Free Marches flag on the wall above a little writing desk.

As Lavellan paces the room, she realizes she hasn’t brought a change of clothes. She hadn’t expected – well, she doesn’t know what she expected when she was called to the Starkhaven base. A generic meeting with her superiors, perhaps. Maybe even a promotion. Certainly not this.

She takes off her dress shoes and lines them up by the door. Then she takes her phone out of her pocket and looks at it. She should call her parents. She should call Keeper Deshanna, or even the clan’s First, Mahanon. Let them know she won’t be in touch for a while. _Work, you know how it is._

They’d been disappointed when she enlisted. Plenty of elves went into the army, but not many of them were Dalish; many of her people never even left the reserve. Being Dalish was about blood, after all, about family, and that meant being together.

“They’ll treat you like garbage,” Babae had said, arms folded, brows furrowed. “You know that don’t you, da’len?”

Mamae had cried. Keeper Deshanna had simply told her that she’d always be have a place there. And certainly everyone thought she would come home, sooner rather than later.

But then she’d been sent to Nevarra for two consecutive tours. She’d been promoted, saved up a little money. She got an apartment in Starkhaven. Now she doesn't go back to the reserve for months at a time. Some of her cousins call her a traitor, a flat-ear. Practically a shem.

They still accept the money she sends, of course, and she knows they'd never say it to her face.

Still, the words sting.

Finally, she tosses the phone down on the desk and curls up on top of the bedcovers, still fully dressed. Everything will be fine, she tells herself.

Everything will be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this in my drafts for ninety years, so.


End file.
